


if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me

by heart_nouveau



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Setting, F/F, Jealousy, POV Margaery, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only when Loras had departed the sunny courtyard, and Sansa had gone too, that Margaery recognized her feeling for what it was: jealousy, as thin and bitter as bile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon on Tumblr back in February, who asked, "What I'd really love to see is Margaery jealous over Sansa's crush on Loras. Especially because she and Loras are so similar" ([x](http://roseroadkingsroad.tumblr.com/post/77807065543/hi-there-do-you-take-prompts-i-dont-usually-ask-but)).
> 
> Title from 'If You Forget Me' by Pablo Neruda.

 

 

Margaery knew it was a weakness to be vain, but that didn’t stop her. It was quite easy to forget propriety when Sansa Stark lifted her head and let those wide blue eyes trail past Margaery as Margaery spoke, her sweet and girlish attention fully caught by another.

Margaery paused smilingly, mid-word, as if it didn’t faze her. And when she glanced over her bared shoulder, it gave her only the dullest sort of surprise to see her brother there, looking as handsome as any storybook illustration made flesh.

She had a quick rush of warmth—she always felt this way, her fond, familiar pride in Loras an extension of pride in herself—but it was tempered with something strange that turned in the pit of her stomach. Margaery tracked the way that Sansa’s eyes followed Loras’s every movement, the way he seemed to reflect the day’s very light as if he were dressed in his gilded tournament armor.

But Loras wore more than just one sort of armor, and he was not the only one. Margaery observed it all and didn’t let her displeasure show in the slightest, keeping the muscles around her mouth loose and relaxed. A few moments later Sansa turned her attention back to Margaery, but the renewed light in her eyes and breathy note in her excited chatter made Margaery uneasy with something she couldn't place.

Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.

It was only when Loras had departed the sunny courtyard, and Sansa had gone too, that Margaery recognized her feeling for what it was: jealousy, as thin and bitter as bile.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t often that Loras pointed out Margaery’s age, but when she cruelly brought up Sansa’s feelings, he leveled her a look that made Margaery almost ashamed. “Don’t be juvenile.”

“What? She dotes on you like an eager puppy.” Margaery flopped onto the divan, for once not minding herself to be ladylike.

“Gods save us from well-meaning virgins with heads full of dreams,” her brother said dryly, and Margaery bristled a little. “Don’t say that. She’s perfectly nice.”

Loras raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure she is. And if you want the child bride, believe me, she’s all yours.”

Margaery refrained from noting that Sansa was in fact taller, and more womanly, than she was.

Loras settled onto the divan next to her. “Why let it bother you? If what everyone says about the way Joffrey treated her is true, then the girl deserves a bit of happiness in her life. I don’t see how her little infatuation could hurt anyone. _I_ certainly won’t be taking her up on it any time soon, but it can’t hurt her to dream.”

Margaery inspected her nails. “I just think that… she ought to have those feelings about someone who can reciprocate them. Take her to bed, and make her _truly_ happy.”

Her brother’s voice was as dry as a bone. “You mean you.”

Margaery smiled.

“I think that would be cruel,” Loras said at last, looking at her in a way that was far too serious. He had never been like this before Renly died. Proud and ambitious, yes—but never like this, forced into possessing a maturity that made him draw into himself, contemplative and hesitant, never reaching or hoping for too much.

Margaery recognized it, and at the same time she hated it. She had seen how grief had laid waste to her beautiful older brother—but somehow, impossibly, she envied him, too. She envied that he’d had the kind of love that could make the earth seem to stop moving when it ended. Sometimes she thought she must be a truly awful person for feeling this way, but it was how she felt. Just as she thought now that it was unfair that Sansa should have her crush, and Loras had had his great love, but she, Margaery, had nothing of the sort.

But Margaery knew that it was more than just that, and she wasn’t proud of her selfish urges.

“But what about what _I_ want?” she said, and it came out sounding childish and domineering all at once.

Loras turned his eyes on her in surprise. “Why,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the lushly appointed room around them, and it was clear he meant her marriage, the throne, everything for which their family had uprooted themselves and come to King’s Landing. “I thought you already had everything you wanted.” 

“Well,” Margaery said, petulant and perversely satisfied that he was still listening, “I don’t.”

 

* * *

 

It was just as easy to seduce Sansa Stark as Margaery expected.

“I have never done this before,” Sansa confessed, blushing so prettily as she stated the obvious that Margaery had to stop to admire her. She told the other girl as much, leaning forward to whisper in the shell of her ear.

“Do you play this game in Highgarden?” Sansa whispered back, blushing as Margaery slipped one smooth hand over Sansa’s collarbone, and down into the lining of her dress.

“Yes, often. Shhh… it’s all right.” Margaery kissed the younger girl’s throat, leaning up slightly. She liked that Sansa was taller than she was; it gave her a strange feeling of protection. Though the gods knew there was only one predator in this room, and it wasn’t Sansa.

She slowly pushed back Sansa’s dress, unlacing the hooks and peeling away the garments as modest as a septa’s. That maid of hers kept Sansa wrapped up like a delectable Silent Sister, necessary in a city that fostered animals like Margaery. _Too late_ , Margaery thought with some satisfaction. When at last the younger girl was undressed, Margaery couldn’t help but let out a sigh of appreciation as the sight of her. Her body was lush and womanly, with round pink-tipped breasts and a curved-in waist, and the most tempting patch of auburn hair between her thighs. She had a woman’s body and a child’s ideas about love.

“No, no, don’t cover yourself,” she assured Sansa, who was blushing, “you’re lovely.”

Obediently Sansa let her hands fall to her sides, and for a moment Margaery just had to sit back and admire the sight she made, seated naked and lovely on the bed, wearing her innocence like a final garment. Margaery leaned forward and ran her nails gently up the tops of Sansa’s thighs, and relished Sansa’s delicious shudder, pressing one shoulder against Sansa’s as if she could absorb that tender sweet feeling. She reached up to cup Sansa’s breasts, thumbing over the nipples, and Sansa closed her eyes tightly for a moment.

Margaery felt herself growing wet with desire. She slipped one hand between Sansa’s legs and Sansa moaned, leaning into the touch. She kissed Margaery as if she was drowning, and Margaery was the only rope that anchored her to the shore.

After, Sansa lay back against the bed, blushing slightly but staring at Margaery as if she had never seen anyone so wonderful in her entire life. She clasped the rose Margaery had given her to her chest. Margaery had stripped away all its thorns with one thumbnail just for her. “No one’s ever made me feel that way before,” she confessed, her voice shaking just a little, as if what she was saying wasn’t perfectly clear; Margaery only smiled, then leaned down to kiss Sansa so passionately that they both lost their breath and Sansa’s lips grew swollen as berries. _Oh, I knew you’d forget my brother as soon as I got my hands on you._  

Sated, satiated, she couldn’t help but feel she had plucked the prettiest flower in King’s Landing that night.

 

* * *

 

She had always intended to keep things going with Sansa Stark, if only to prove Loras wrong—he’d made it clear that he expected she would bed Sansa and run off, as if she were truly heartless—but Margaery had underestimated just how intoxicating it was to be the object of affection for a love-struck young girl. Whenever she entered a room, Sansa looked up immediately; she doted on Margaery with her eyes. That sort of adoration and blind obedience was heady, addictive. Margaery wanted more, and she had never been in the business of denying herself what she wanted.

When she pushed Sansa’s pale legs apart to reveal the sweet pink blush there, the delicate lips unfurling like the petals of a rose beneath their aureole of fiery autumn red hair, Margaery could barely keep herself from burying her face between those thighs and gorging herself. She dragged her nails over the other girl’s stomach and thighs, relishing how Sansa wriggled and squirmed under her touch, hardly able to contain those heartrending sighs. 

There was nothing like bringing a girl to orgasm knowing that you were the only one who had ever brought her such pleasure.

 

* * *

 

Loras caught them one day in the stairwell just outside Margaery’s chambers, Margaery tickling Sansa lightly around the waist to make her laugh, pinning her to the wall just gently enough for Sansa to know it was only a game. The sunlight darting through the high narrow windows blinded Margaery, distracting her so she didn’t hear the sound of footsteps over Sansa’s breathy, nervous laughter. When she glanced up suddenly to see her older brother frowning down at them, her heart gave a little leap of shock in her chest.

Her brother was looking at her with a warning in his eyes. Feeling rather triumphant, and not at all ashamed, she rested her forehead against Sansa’s and gazed right back at him.

Realizing what was going on, Sansa went still against the stone, limp under Margaery’s hands. She was blushing fiercely.

Loras’s expression resolved into a polite smile. “Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” he said to Sansa, a light expression crossing his face as easily as a breath of wind. He nodded to Sansa courteously before continuing down the stairs, but Margaery didn’t bother to meet his eyes as he went. She already knew what her brother was thinking—he had made it abundantly clear.

“Margaery,” the younger girl said weakly, and Margaery could feel the humid bloom of her embarrassment, the silky flush of her skin. 

She turned back to her conquest, pressing a quieting finger against those parted lips. “Don’t worry,” she crooned softly. “Loras would never tell a soul.”

 

* * *

 

She had been so satisfied by proving the point to her brother; but as time elapsed and Loras refused to speak of Sansa with more than a frown and pale disapproval, Margaery gradually realized that the only person she was proving anything to anymore was herself.

Meanwhile, Sansa slept through every night like a tender, sweet animal in Margaery’s arms, curling around Margaery like that was all she’d ever known. 

Margaery had had many women, but never like this. She’d never doubted her own kindness before. Truly, all she’d wanted to do—apart from getting what she wanted on a childish whim; _yes,_ apart from that—was to make Sansa smile. But as the days went by and Loras’s doubt could no longer pass for her sole motivation, it began to seem like even that might be too much.

 

* * *

 

Her feelings should have changed after Sansa was married to the Imp. If Margaery were a better woman, she might have let go; if Margaery were a better woman, the first emotion to cross her mind upon seeing Sansa after the marriage would not have been the sense of sharp, selfish loss. And yet.

She knew it wasn’t love, but perhaps this was the closest she would ever get to knowing it.

“If I could marry you,” Margaery swore, “I would. I’d lock you away in a tower where no one could find you, and I’d make love to you every day. You’d be so happy you could hardly walk.”

But her fingers tightened on Sansa’s arms in disbelief, belying the weight of her emboldened words. Sansa winced, half-laughing, cringing away from Margaery’s grip just enough for Margaery to feel ashamed.

“Margaery,” she said, breathy and lightheaded. “You’re hurting me.”

Margaery blinked, coming back to herself. She swallowed, steeled herself to keep back the tears. “I know,” she said, voice unsteady despite herself. “I’m sorry.”

She did know, and she _was_ sorry. Her hands skirted the sweep of Sansa’s waist, trailing over that long soft auburn hair, and she bit her lip at the soft pliant sounds Sansa made, and the way the curve of the other girl’s body yielded obediently to Margaery’s hands even now. Sansa was like a dog that didn’t know it was being kicked, and kept coming back for more.

Yes, Margaery was truly sorry for what she had done to Sansa, and what she was about to do. 

But the worst part was, she wasn’t sorry enough to stop.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you were wondering, this Margaery does not line up with my headcanon for her in 'We court our own Captivity.' This Margaery is much less emotionally mature, and just... different. 
> 
> I've seen her meta'd as being aromantic; but my view is completely the opposite, that Margaery would like to be romantic but doesn't know how. At least not in this story.


End file.
